How I wound up writing an advice column still escapes me. As if this student body hadn’t already earned my scorn and driven me to drink. Who knows, maybe Life & Style editor Jessi Knowles drugged me with roofies to sucker me into this job.

That said, bring me your questions, your queries, your concerns. Weight my mind with worries of love, of lust, of things that disgust. And worry not about your precious reputation; anonymity knows no pity. You can reach me here.

I’m a freshman who’s doing sorority rush, and I woke up this morning with a big, fat cold sore on my lip! Do you think the sorority girls will think I have an STD and judge me?

The lovely ladies of the sorority world will of course think you nabbed some nasty STD. Who wouldn’t? I don’t buy it’s a cold sore. Why should they?

But worry not: They—unlike me!—probably won’t judge you for it. Simply tell them you contracted it by sleeping with a trust fund Playboy who you met while shopping for a new pair of Uggs. Pastel Uggs, actually, that match your scarf almost too well. Almost.

Of course, this plan does demand that you own and wear a pair of Uggs, but surely you know better than to rush sans sheepskin.

If you do, however, happen to find a sorority who discriminates against STDs, just tell them it qualifies as a minority status. You’re sure to get their bid then. They love that diversity stuff.

I accidentally slept with both of my boss’ roommates. Now, after a ridiculous New Year’s, I realize I accidentally got a 27-year-old boyfriend. Should I stay with him and take advantage of his money and gifts, or is this that wrong?

Additionally, it was in my mom’s minivan, and now I have bruises from the seatbelt.

Oh, Share-a-Maiden, vixen of New Jersey—a nickname I shall gift you for the sake of witty, quasi-anonymity. I could have edited that seatbelt bit out, but I think everybody deserves to hear that. What with the bruises and the buckles and the safety-first.

As for your question, I don’t think I really understand it. Of course you should stay with him! The space betwixt you and him gives you 1,500 miles of sexual freedom, and you get gifts to boot! And let’s not forget he’s your boss’ roommate—maybe he can get you a promotion or a raise or at least better hours. Never forget the fringe benefits.

As far as I can tell, only one complication exists. In my world, as a manipulative criminal who too often seeks solstice in the sauce, there’s no such thing as “wrong” or “unfair.” That only leaves this: What will the second roommate think? You know, that other guy with whom you may have knocked knees, in the backseat, with the windows up, ’cause that’s the just the way you like to fuck. (That’s a Luda reference, just incase you weren’t savvy to what was hip five years ago.) As long as he won’t be a problem, then simply there won’t be a problem. That’s just science.

Well, unless your boyfriend reads this. Then you’re totally minivanned—and by that, I mean “fucked in the backseat of a minivan, with bruises et al.” And not in a good way.